‘That smells good enough to tempt a saint, maid.’
‘I thought you might like a snack,’ Ellie says, slicing open a tea bun. She slathers it with margarine and jam and hands one half to Emmett and the other to Thomas. ‘You’ve been in here for hours.’
Thomas lifts the tea towel and peeks into the basket. ‘You didn’t bring any beer, did you, maid?’
‘You and Ephraim drank the last of it last night. All eight bottles.’
‘Fishing’s thirsty work.’
‘Yes, but every night, Thomas? If you’re not drinking up Agnes’s beer, you’re off down at Rod Fizzard’s or Jim Boyd’s.’
‘Don’t be getting on at me, Ellie Mae. It helps me with the pain in my leg. It’s part of life here, anyway. Keeps us cheerful.’
‘The women don’t drink.’
‘Women don’t needs to drink.’
‘Thomas—’
The door swings open and Ephraim enters the store. ‘You can smell those buns all the way to Jim Boyd’s.’ He pulls up a chair to the table. ‘Is it good, Emmy, b’y?’
Emmett nods as he licks jam off his lip. ‘Looks what Da’ made.’
‘Well, isn’t that a lovely thing.’
‘Push it, Grandpa.’
‘I can’t do that, Emmy, b’y. It’ll fall right off.’
‘It won’t, Grandpa. Look.’ Emmett pokes at the carved bird, setting it teetering around the stand.
Ephraim whistles. ‘Well, isn’t that a clever thing?’
Ellie hands her father-in-law a buttered tea bun. ‘Have you heard anything about the referendum results? I heard Archbishop Roche was dead against Newfoundland joining Canada.’
‘Jim had the radio goin’ in the shop. Big crowd there listenin’. Most of the Catholics on the Avalon Peninsula listened to that old fella. They mostly all voted for independence, though some of them was upset they couldn’t vote to join the States like’s been talked up these past months.’
Ellie licks a dollop of jam off her finger. ‘Newfoundland could have joined the United States?’
‘There was some talk about it, maid, yes,’ Ephraim says, ‘but it never gots onto the ballot.’
Thomas wipes a crumb off his chin as he chews on a tea bun. ‘So, we’re independent, then? Is that whats you’re sayin’?’
‘No, b’y. Smallwood’s lot won the day. We’re joinin’ Canada next year. Agnes’s got a face like a can of worms. I stopped in to tell her on the way here.’
‘Joining Canada will be a good thing, don’t you think?’ Ellie says as she scoops jam onto a tea bun. ‘I read in the paper that they’re going to pay an annual baby bonus to parents for every child. They’ll send us money for Emmy. We can start a college fund for him.’
Thomas laughs. ‘I doubts our Emmy’ll be heading off to college. It’s not for the likes of us around here.’
Ellie sets down the tea bun. ‘What do you mean by that, Thomas? Our son can go to college. All he needs is a proper education here first.’
Ephraim reaches into his pocket and takes out an envelope. ‘Hold on. I just remembered. This came for you yesterday at Jim Boyd’s, Ellie.’
Ellie rips open the envelope and slides out the telegram.
10.45 NORWICH
DEAR ELLIE – POPPY DIED 16 JULY – FUNERAL YESTERDAY – LEAVING FOR LONDON – DOTTIE
She clutches the telegram against her chest. ‘Poppy’s died, Thomas. Poppy’s died and I never got to say goodbye.’
Chapter 55
Tippy’s Tickle – 12 September 2011
Sam slams the door of his pickup truck and kicks the front tyre as the others clamber out with the dogs, and onto the gravel parking lot beneath the lighthouse.
‘Looks like the tyre’s got a slow leak. I’m going to have to head over to Wince’s place and get him to look at it.’
Sophie eyes the once-black truck, which is now patchy with rust and faded to a dirty grey from years of salty rain. ‘You might ask him if he can fix the hole in the floor on the passenger side, too. I think the only thing holding this truck together is rust, Sam. Don’t you think it’s time to buy a new one?’
Sam holds up a hand and rubs his thumb and forefinger together. ‘Money.’
‘But your furniture’s selling for a bomb in New York.’
He shrugs. ‘Retailers charge what they want. I make a fraction of what the stuff sells for in New York. It’s enough to pay the bills, but there’s no gravy.’
‘There’s always credit.’
Sam shakes his head. ‘That means the bank owns you.’
Ellie hands Sophie a burlap bag full of paint tubes, brushes and palettes. ‘Enough chit-chat, you two. Florie, give Becca the lunch hamper and take the easels. We’ve got a painting lesson to get on with.’
***
Standing back from her easel, Sophie lifts her face up to the soft warmth of the September sun. It feels so good to be back. She’d forgotten how this place seemed to wrap her in possibilities – the possibility of being an artist, the possibility of being part of a family, the possibility, maybe, of love. She could almost pretend that the New York Sophie didn’t exist. Almost.
She scrutinises her painting. The white lighthouse with its red beacon sits resolutely on the grey rock of the headland, puffs of white clouds floating above it in the whisper blue of the sky. Cocking her head, she squints at the white house on the cliff, and screws up her mouth.
She’s made the roof too large. She needs to work on her technique. When is she supposed to find the time? She’d already missed two life-drawing classes this month. Maybe it’s just a silly dream. She dabs her brush into the blue paint, mixing it with white, and works at obliterating the roofline.
Ellie wipes her brush on a cotton rag and dabs at her palette, blending grey paint into the pale blue sky. ‘You’re worrying too much about making a pretty picture, Sophie. Don’t overthink it. Art has to come from within. How does the lighthouse make you feel?’
‘It’s a building on a
